


Lycidas

by draculard



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Can also be read as gen, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, International Fanworks Day 2021, M/M, Post-Battle of Batonn (Star Wars), Pre-Slash, Rarepair, Suicidal Ideation, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29373123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Before him on the table are a bottle of liquor and his blaster.His hand twitches.A small smear of blood is left behind.
Relationships: Nevil Cygni | Nightswan & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Nevil Cygni | Nightswan/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Lycidas

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ликид](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624355) by [NadiaYar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaYar/pseuds/NadiaYar)



> Title from John Milton’s “Lycidas,” a mourning poem for a dead friend. In the tradition of a pastoral elegy, Milton chose a Greek name used by Theocritus and Virgil; the name Lycidas means “best of pipers,” and both describe a talented musician/poet who, despite his talent, fears he will lose to another more talented than him, which fits nicely with Nightswan’s theme.

It was twenty minutes past three a.m. 

The Chimaera was quiet. Alone in his quarters, Admiral Thrawn sat at a small table. His tunic hung over the back of the chair; his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. The artificial lighting sparkled off silver-toned scars on his forearms.

Before him on the table were three items: his comlink, the screen dead from lack of use, as no one had contacted him since the day shift ended for bridge crew; a bottle of strong liquor, half-gone; and his blaster. He wasn't drunk, despite the liquor; his eyes were clear, if tired. His face was impassive. His eyes were fixed on the gun.

Today, during the Battle of Batonn, Nightswan had been killed.

Thrawn's eyes drifted closed. When they opened again, his hand twitched on the table, moving closer to the bottle. His mind was burning; he was weary, but he couldn't sleep, nor could he convince himself either to lie down or to stand, to put the bottle away or drink the rest of it. A shower would clear his head, he told himself, but he stayed rooted to his chair. His datapad would at least distract him, but when he considered his plans for the future —  all the things he still had left to do —  his mind circled back to the hours spent at Vanto's side, unraveling every one of Nightswan's beautiful plans, constantly wondering how many subtle facets he had missed.

His hand twitched again. Closer to the blaster this time. It was set to stun, offering him the chance for a few quick hours of dreamless sleep. He would not kill himself, of course —  the urge was always there, in the background of his mind since he was a child, leading him toward one form of self-destruction or the other. Every military man had it; you couldn't accept the risk of sacrificing your own life without it. But this ignoble death —  to die by his own blaster —  was an option he told himself he would never take. His duty came first. His duty to his men, to the Empire, to the Ascendancy...

Nightswan had died for his duty, Thrawn thought, a dull headache lancing through his temples. A sour taste coated his tongue. He tapped his fingers on the table in a mindless beat, let it drive this thought away. The image of Nightswan's broken body hovered over his memories; he'd wanted to see it, perhaps even prepare it for incineration himself —  had felt drawn to this concept like a magnet, felt a sense of responsibility almost impossible to shake. But there'd been no time, no viable excuse for an admiral to handle the task of a mortuary technician.

Nightswan's true name was a mystery. His next of kin was unknown.

Pain would clear his mind, Thrawn told himself firmly, but when he clasped his hands together and dug his thumbnail into his skin hard enough to draw blood, his thoughts only fractured. His eyes tracked to the scars on his forearms —  battle scars —  and he remembered that Nightswan too had been scarred, and he felt the strength in his hands fade away. A bead of blood gathered at the crest of torn skin, dripped slowly to the tabletop.

Speaking to someone would clear his mind, then. But there was no one to speak to. Vanto had avoided him after the battle; something between them had splintered, changed, while Thrawn was planetside. He'd started to question Thrawn's loyalty, started to question his own as well. 

Thrawn could read Vanto's expressions well enough to know the other man could read him, too — he recognized Thrawn's reaction to Nightswan's death, was uncomfortable with it, was avoiding him as a result. Vanto didn't want to speak to him; nor was Vanto obligated to, so Thrawn would let it be. In any case, he had never been fully honest with Vanto; had only been truly open with one person since his exile. A face swam before his eyes, coarse sun-bitten skin, sharp understanding eyes.

But there was no one else. His hand twitched closer to the bottle, leaving a smear of blood behind.

There was a swell of emotion inside him that he couldn't name, making his chest ache and his throat tight. The liquor burned, then warmed him, but his hands remained cold, like they weren't attached to the rest of his body. 

He stared at them, planted halfway between the bottle and the gun, and for a moment he couldn't remember where the blood on his skin had come from.

A noble, brilliant man had died today, his name unknown. His allies had been killed alongside him; he left no record behind of his brilliance or even his existence, and the only reminder of his sincerity was the wreckage of Batonn, where his ashes would be spread along with those of 30,000 civilians and Rebel soldiers. 

There was no one to remember his death but Thrawn.


End file.
